A Chip and a Chair (Seven of Spades, #5)(17)

Dominic had spent a good chunk of last week thoroughly researching Conrad Bishop’s background, learning every detail about the man that he could obtain through legal means. He’d even arranged to run into Bishop’s assistant and babysitter-the former at her gym, the latter at a bar-and cozy up to them for insider info.

Which was how he knew that, on the weekends Bishop had his kids, he took them to the same park every Sunday afternoon.

It was a gorgeous spring day, hot but not unbearably so, and the park was packed. Kids and dogs chased each other across the wide-open lawns; bicyclists zipped down the paths around couples pushing strollers. There was a birthday party in progress at a cluster of picnic tables, and a mouthwatering smell wafted from their grill.

Dominic and Rebel ambled through the park until he spotted Bishop kicking a soccer ball around with his two kids. They continued walking until Dominic judged they were at the right distance for him to observe Bishop without raising suspicions.

He unclipped Rebel’s leash, then pulled a tennis ball from the pocket of the windbreaker he had to wear to conceal his shoulder holster. Rebel snapped to attention, her body quivering with the intensity of her focus. She raced after the ball the second he let it fly.

Their game of fetch provided the perfect way to keep an eye on Bishop. The information Dominic had gathered so far confirmed Miranda Cassidy’s claims that Bishop’s behavior had been erratic recently, but he saw no evidence of that in the current moment. Bishop appeared physically healthy, tanned and fit, and he was clearly enjoying himself as he laughed and ran around with his kids.

Still, Dominic knew from personal experience how easy it could be to hide an addiction-at least at first-so he would reserve judgment for now.

As he tossed the ball for Rebel, he planned how he would continue his surveillance once Bishop left the park. He’d follow, though he’d need to be cautious. If Bishop was restraining himself from getting high around his kids, then he’d probably go straight for a fix as soon as he dropped them off at their mom’s house tonight. Dominic might be able to catch him in the act and wrap this case up in record time.

All of a sudden, Bishop stiffened, missing the ball his daughter had kicked to him as he jerked around to his left. He gestured to his kids, spoke a few words to them, and then jogged over to an ice cream cart on the footpath nearby.

There was a young white guy standing to the side of the line, average height and build for someone barely out of their teens. More interesting than the guy himself was the change to Bishop’s body language as the two of them began talking.

In a complete reversal from his earlier behavior, Bishop became twitchy, darting glances from side to side. His hands were in constant motion: smoothing through his hair, rubbing over his face, tugging at his clothing. The young guy, by contrast, was as relaxed as everyone else in the park.

Pulling out his small digital camera, Dominic angled himself and Rebel so he could pretend to take pictures of her while photographing Bishop and his friend. He used the high-quality zoom to get a closer look.

The two men conducted a short, whispered conversation before Bishop withdrew what was clearly an envelope full of cash from his jacket pocket and handed it over.

Dominic almost dropped the camera in his shock. Did Bishop have the balls to engage in a drug deal in a public park, fifty feet from his own children?

The young guy didn’t give Bishop anything in return, though. He just shoved the envelope into his own pocket, nonchalantly bumped his fist into Bishop’s shoulder, and sauntered away.

Still flustered, Bishop joined the line for the ice cream cart. By the time he returned to his kids with ice cream sandwiches, he was back to normal.

Dominic watched the unknown man walking away at the far edge of the park, listened to his gut, and made a split-second decision. Whistling to Rebel, he set off in pursuit of Bishop’s mystery contact.

They caught up with the guy in the parking lot, where he got into a car not far from Dominic’s truck. Dominic jotted down the license plate, noting the car’s UNLV Rebels bumper sticker with interest.

He followed at a prudent distance as they drove away from the park, eventually finding themselves in a middle-class neighborhood in Enterprise. The car pulled into the driveway of a bland Southwestern house with two other cars out front, and the kid strolled inside like he owned the place.

Frowning, Dominic parked half a block away on the other side of the street. This didn’t look like somewhere a drug dealer would find himself, but maybe that was the point.

There was no telling how long Dominic would have to wait until something interesting happened-if it ever did-so he’d use the time wisely. He retrieved his laptop from the passenger footwell and booted it up.

His truck’s mobile hotspot provided access to the internet, and it was the work of minutes to run the car’s plates and learn the driver’s identity through DMV records: Jim Watts, age 22. From there, a simple switch of databases was all it took to run a basic background check.

Dominic blinked and leaned back in his seat. Watts, who was indeed a senior at UNLV, had a handful of arrests on his record-vandalism and similar petty crimes, nothing bad enough to get him kicked out of school. But it was one particular field on his rap sheet which caught and held Dominic’s attention.

Known Affiliations: Utopia [far-right militia].

Dominic shot a startled glance toward the house. Sensing his tension, Rebel whined and turned to look out the window as well.